NEW DAY
The apartment felt quieter than usual after Coach Herrera left. Alonso lingered in the kitchen, his fingers still brushing against the edges of the box.
His mother moved silently around him, preparing dinner with practiced ease, but now and then, her eyes would drift to the boots on the counter—proof of a dream that suddenly felt a little closer.
The sound of the front door opening broke the stillness.
Alonso's heart leaped. His father was home.
Emilio stepped inside, his work uniform dusty and smelling faintly of oil and metal. The lines on his face seemed deeper under the flickering kitchen light, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
Yet the moment he laid eyes on his son, a smile softened his worn features.
"Papa," Alonso called, holding up the box as if it were a trophy.
"Look!"
His father raised an eyebrow as he set down his lunch pail. "What is it, mijo?"
"Coach gave them to me," Alonso said breathlessly.
"I was the man of the match. I scored four goals today. Four!"
Emilio froze mid-step, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief.
"Four goals?" His voice was quiet, rough around the edges.
Alonso nodded eagerly, opening the box to reveal the gleaming boots.
"He said I have real talent. That scouts might notice if I keep playing like this."
For a long moment, his father said nothing.
The weight of the words seemed to hang in the air, thick and heavy. Then, without warning, Emilio reached out and pulled Alonso into a tight embrace.
When he finally pulled back, tears were glistening in his eyes—tears Alonso had never seen before. His father was a man of few words, a man who held his emotions close. But not tonight.
"My son," Emilio said, his voice trembling, "you'll be great one day. I know it."
The words struck Alonso harder than any goal he had ever scored.
His throat tightened as the warmth of his father's belief washed over him.
"I won't let you down," Alonso promised softly.
Emilio smiled, brushing a rough hand through his son's hair.
"You never could."
That night, after dinner, Alonso carefully carried the box to his small bedroom.
The space was modest—a single bed pushed against the wall, a shelf with a few worn books, and a wardrobe with a broken hinge. But it was his.
He opened the creaking wardrobe door and, with the utmost care, placed the boots on the highest shelf. The leather gleamed under the dim bulb, a reminder of everything he was working toward.
As he closed the door, his old, cracked boots sat quietly beneath the shelf—a reminder of where he had started.
He lay in bed afterward, sleep hovering just beyond reach.
His body ached in a way that felt good—earned—but his mind buzzed with possibilities.
A soft ping broke the silence.
Alonso blinked, rolling over to reach for the cheap, second-hand phone his parents had saved months to buy for him so he can be watching videos and learn with it.
A new message.
The contact was unknown.
"Congratulations, Playmaker."
Alonso's breath caught in his throat. He read the words again, his pulse quickening.
''Who is that''?, Alonso thought.
He then remembered there was only one person who had ever called him that.
Valeria.
He sat up, heart thudding against his ribs.
After everything that had happened—after Javi and his boys humiliated him and turned the school against him—he hadn't spoken to her in weeks.
His fingers hovered over the screen, unsure of what to say. Was this a joke? Another trick?
But something about the message felt real.
Simple. Genuine.
Before he could think better of it, he typed back:
"You saw the game?"
The message was sent, but no reply came.
He stared at the phone for a while longer before setting it aside.
Sleep eventually claimed him, his dreams filled with golden fields and the sound of cheering crowds.
The next morning, Alonso woke before the sun.
The smell of coffee drifted through the apartment as his mother prepared for another long shift. His father was already gone—off to the factory before dawn.
Alonso slipped into his training gear, grabbed his ball, and quietly stepped outside.
The air was crisp, biting at his skin as he jogged through the narrow streets.
The city still slept around him, but his blood hummed with energy.
He didn't bother with breakfast.
There was only one place he wanted to be.
A crumbling lot on the outskirts of the neighborhood—a forgotten patch of concrete surrounded by rusted fences and graffiti-covered walls.
This place had become his sanctuary ever since Javi and his boys had turned against him.
It was here that he rebuilt himself.
The ball danced between his feet as he moved through the drills he'd crafted himself. Touch after touch, he pushed his limits. Faster. Tighter. Sharper.
During the practice, Alonso heard footsteps approaching, he turned and saw his friend Martin.
''Hey bro'', Martin called. ''How have you been''?, Alonso replied.
They had a lot of conversations. Alonso then told Martin about Valeria. Martin knew Javi wanted Valeria so much but he couldn't stand in front of her to tell her because she was one of the bright students in the school.
Alonso nodded but didn't say a word. He thought Javi and his boys were going to show up again if they found out that Alonso was now friending Valeria.
Alonso continued with his practice. He practiced every scenario he could imagine—cutting through defenders, curling shots past invisible goalkeepers, dragging the ball under his boot in a blur of motion.
Each drop of sweat felt like another step closer.
Hours slipped by unnoticed until the sun finally peeked over the rooftops, bathing the lot in warm light.
Alonso's legs burned, his lungs ached—but still, he didn't stop.
He always had this thought in his mind, ''I'm going to be great one day"
He then went back to his house to find something to eat because he had eaten nothing.